


Dust

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-16
Updated: 2008-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney does his best to ignore the world while he waits in the motel room – sets the a/c on high to fight the heat, draws the curtains against the sun and snacks on peanuts, combs through lines of code and tries to think of some route around the infinite frustration of replicator programming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust

Rodney does his best to ignore the world while he waits in the motel room – sets the a/c on high to fight the heat, draws the curtains against the sun and snacks on peanuts, combs through lines of code and tries to think of some route around the infinite frustration of replicator programming. He doesn't look at the $10 alarm clock on the bedside table, tries not to glance at the display on his laptop that's carving hours out of a solitary afternoon, works as hard as he knows at ignoring John's absence and the time it takes (he thinks) to drive to the rendezvous point, scatter lazy half-sentences around some dust-and-scrub-brush gulch, get back in the car with his gun still warm against the small of his back and drive the hell back to this strip of something close to civilization.

Yet when the door cracks open, throwing heat and light across his lap, he's furious with needless worry, looks up to ask _where the hell have you been; how long can one meeting possibly take; are you fundamentally crippled when it comes to the passage of linear time?_ But Rodney's words stutter and fail when John closes the door, and his eyes readjust to the dim light of safety, to the length of John's torso and the dull, scuffed leather of his worn brown boots.

"Didn't learn anything we don't already know," John says, setting his gun on the beside table, unfastening his watch. "You?"

"I, uh – " Rodney swallows, gaze drawn to the strip of pale skin at John's left wrist, the dust on his forearms, the hot desert smell of his jeans. "Couple things."

"Cool." John tugs his shirt from his pants, works at the buttons, pulls it away from his body and lets it fall to the floor. There's a line at each elbow, where dirt and sand have etched themselves into his skin. "Anything from SGC?"

"No new hits. He's gone underground."

"Figures." John sits on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, tugs off his boots. "I'm gonna shower. I'll be tasting dirt for days."

And Rodney swallows, thinks he could stand that, tasting John's dust covered skin, chasing sand from the crease of John's elbows with his tongue, his fingers. "Sure," he manages, shifting the laptop, trying to cover the bulge in his pants. "I'll, uh . . ."

John turns his head and smiles at him. "Yeah," he says softly, and he's still wearing his jeans as he pads into the bathroom, the small of his back damp with sweat, and Rodney closes his eyes, blows out a breath, thinks of replicators loose on earth and tries to marshal his thoughts back to coding. The hiss of the shower makes him flinch, and he shakes his head, half laughs at himself, stares at his laptop screen and forces the numbers to make some kind of sense.

He's mostly successful – he's genuinely surprised when John throws himself down on the bed beside him, naked and damp, flexing his toes, one hand resting loose against his belly. "Better," John hums, and his eyes are closed, his hair a mess of cowlicks. There's dirt beneath his fingernails still, and his forearms are dark from sun if not sand – Rodney fumbles the laptop to the bedside table muttering, "Jesus, you don't play fair," and "Why are you . . . how am I supposed to, when you're?" turning back around, hands unsteady, stretching out and curing his fingers around John's hip, dragging his lips across John's throat. John hums agreeably. "Don't know," he smirks, and his breath hitches, breaks when Rodney finds his mouth, and Rodney sprawls across him, fully clothed and desperate to touch, whines just a little when John hooks a leg across the back of one of his thighs, rocking his hips against the denim of Rodney's jeans.

"I worried, you bastard," Rodney whispers against the damp curve of John's neck, arousal fluttering, a panicked want low in his belly, and when John nips at his throat he can't help but whine.

"I'm fine," John says, and his hands are on Rodney's ass, greedy, pulling him closer, his mouth hot and restless; his skin tastes of sweat.

Rodney grunts, closes his eyes against the sharp heat that twists suddenly through his gut. "Didn't know," he mutters. "Didn't know, and you're always . . ." He gasps. "Jesus, John, I need . . ."

John laughs a little, breathless and sharp. "Yeah," he pants against Rodney's ear, "Yeah, just let me . . ." And he pushes hard against Rodney's weight, rolls them over, spreads a hand against Rodney's chest, holding him down as he straddles his thighs.

Rodney keens softly, hips bucking despite himself. John's naked, hard, smiling dangerously, and he's two or three times what Rodney can handle with his shirt tangled up above his waist and his jeans too tight. He tries to sit, to bunch his muscles and strain up toward John's mouth, but John pushes him back, bends to shove his shirt out of the way, presses hot, open-mouthed kisses above the waistband of his jeans, and Rodney swears, twists, can't gain traction, isn't above begging, mumbles, "please, please."

"Mmmm," John grins, fingers sliding beneath Rodney's shirt, a thumb grazing one nipple. "Like it when you're like this."

"Fucker," Rodney manages, but then John cups him through his jeans and he can't say more, not until the fog in his brain clears a little, enough that he gasps with relief as John eases open the button at his fly, tugs at his zipper, frees his cock and leans to suck for just a moment, far too gently, at the head. "Off, off," Rodney demands, asks, pleads, and John looks up, one eyebrow arched, lips wet and swollen.

"Or?" he asks.

" _Would you just_ . . ."

John grins, lifts his weight, tugs Rodney's jeans down his legs, pausing to kiss his thighs while Rodney's trapped by the denim gathered at his knees. Rodney reaches up, hooks his fingers around the top of the mattress, pants helplessly as John finishes the job, pulls off his socks, settles back over him and angles his cock into the crease of Rodney's hip. He groans, the sound unsteady, and Rodney cants his torso, grabs for him, swears when John angles beyond his reach.

"How do you want it?" John asks, and Rodney grits his teeth.

"I just . . . can't we . . . " Rodney's breath escapes in a sudden gasp as John rubs against him again. He shakes his head, meets John's gaze. "Come here."

And John looks almost tender, watching him as if he's a puzzle to figure out, and he reaches to set his hands beside Rodney's shoulders and leans over him, says, "Yeah?"

"Yes," Rodney says, and pulls him down, kisses him hungrily, their bodies aligning by some default he's never understood. There's reassurance in the weight of John's body, in the pressure and drag of his belly, the hair on his thighs; a reliable comfort in an arousal that pushes away the day's other problems – human greed, replicators, tracking codes, the hum of a/c. Rodney arches up, thrusting, graceless, the buttons of his shirt dragging against his skin until John slows them down, frames Rodney's face, murmurs, "slow, slower," and kisses him again. "Like this," John whispers, and rocks against him. The heat in Rodney's belly dissipates, curls into some new, reckless form, a lazy pressure that builds almost cruelly, ratcheting up one notch each time their cocks brush, each time their bodies shudder in response. John's mouth still tastes like Nevada dust, a damp contradiction against Rodney's jaw, and Rodney wraps his hands around John's upper arms, fingers tight, grounds himself against John's skin. They're noisy, clumsy; his skin is overheated, stretching tight across his bones, and he can feel his orgasm, a messy heat that grows precise, clawing at his spine, and Rodney kisses whatever part of John he can reach, comes with John's gaze fixed on him, watching, greedy. It's not until Rodney's lax against the mattress, sticky and damp, that John dips his head, sucks at the pulse point at Rodney's throat, rolls his hips down, down, jerky and helpless, comes with Rodney whimpering, holding him close, breathing in the scent of his hair.

They doze – at least Rodney thinks they do, drifting toward consciousness when John's fingers brush against his chest. "Doing?" Rodney murmurs.

"Shirt," John says, and he's mostly sprawled beside him, one leg still pressed between Rodney's thighs, and his fingers are working deliberately at buttons – he presses a kiss to each inch of skin he finds. When the shirt's unfastened, he coaxes, "Roll toward me," tugs and smoothes his hands over Rodney's arms until the shirt's gone, thrown on the floor, and Rodney's naked, resting against him, face pressed against his neck. John's hand wanders up and down Rodney's spine and Rodney stretches against him, hmmpfs into the pillow beside John's ear.

"Need a better system," Rodney mumbles, dragging a hand to John's belly, thumbing the skin there, feeling the muscles jump. "Until they're . . . " He yawns. "You know. 'Til we catch them. I should go with you."

"Rodney . . . "

"I'd even stay in the car."

John laughs gently, a rumble beneath Rodney's ear. "Maybe."

"Jerk," Rodney whispers, knowing indulgence when he hears it. "Flying off into danger jerk with the . . ."

"I'll always come back," John says, and Rodney half-feels what's probably a kiss, pressed into his thinning hair.

"You better." Rodney shivers as John shifts and tugs the motel blanket up and over them both. "Besides. Y'might like me dirty. Dusty. With the sand."

John's warm beside him, around him, close. "Good point," he murmurs. "We should investigate."

"Experiments."

"Exactly." The tip of John's nose is cool against Rodney's forehead, his breath regular, irritating, warm. "Later, then."

"Later," Rodney says, and he thumbs the skin below John's navel again, falls asleep to the rise and fall of John's belly beneath his hand.


End file.
